"Not by name, I think," said Mary Burrows. "But she will remember it. It goes this way, Thora."
And she began to whistle, pursing up her mouth slightly, almost without movement of the lips, emitting fluty bird-notes. Thora took up the fiddle and began to accompany her with softened chords. "Money Musk" glided into a "Dixie" of piccolo and muted drums and then the girl began to whistle something that Sheridan fancied was improvisation, at least her own. Thora followed her with due repression.
It was the cooing of doves, the music of a brook, or buds in spring branches. The sweet, pure tone soared shrill and infinitely clear; it softened, dropped, died away—and left them staring, under the spell. Mary Burrows herself broke the silence.
"It's your turn now," she suggested.
Embarrassment thickened, nudges were exchanged.
"Red sings a little," said Sheridan mischievously.
"I do not. I got a voice like a crow."
There were calls for Spike, insistent, not to be silenced. An elongated, pock-marked ruffian got up, arms akimbo, seemingly not at all loath to air his accomplishment. An Adam's apple slithered up and down in his throat as he sang, his voice lugubrious as the howl of a coyote on a wet night. But to his companions it was as the voice of Caruso and they reveled in the chorus.
Come along, boys, an' listen ter my tale,
I'll tell you of my troubles on the old Panhandle Trail.
Comi ti yi, yuppi ya, yuppi ya.
Comi ti yi, yuppi, yuppi ya.
